The Bond of the Twinkie
by amber-goddess
Summary: An evening study session with Hank gets Bobby thinking (slashy musing from the Iceman - don't read if that squicks you!)


Disclaimer: I own nothing. If you thought otherwise, let me assure you that you are seriously mistaken.  
  
Authors note: Yeah, okay, I'll come clean: I'm a cannon Bobby/Hank shipper. There's not the slightest chance that it's ever going to happen - least of all in Evolution - but my slash muse refuses to listen to reason. Its nothing graphic - pre-slash musings at the very worst - but if you don't like the idea of guys having crushes on other guys you'd do better just to leave now.  
  
Still here?  
  
Hehe, don't say that I didn't warn you...  
  
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---The Bond of the Twinkie---  
  
By Amber Goddess  
  
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You know what I love?  
  
Twinkies.  
  
There isn't a problem under the sun that a Twinkie can't solve. Feeling upset? Eat a Twinkie. Failing at school? Eat a Twinkie. Mutating into a pubescent ice-wielder? Well, best take two Twinkies for that one...but it'll do the trick. It's the ultimate pick-me-up: just the right balance of sugary goodness and cream filling to fix whatever's wrong with your life.  
  
Oh yeah. Gotta love those Twinkies.  
  
Its funny, but nobody else around here seems to eat them. The snack cupboard was the first thing that I looked for when I joined the Institute...took me almost twenty minutes to find the damn thing...and you know what? Not a single solitary Twinkie in sight. Not one. Talk about a contradiction in terms - a snack cupboard without Twinkies?! What is the world coming to?!  
  
I tried to make the others understand how utterly *wrong* this was, but strangely they didn't seem to be very concerned. Damn health junkies. Even Kurt - my fellow junk food nut - didn't understand the seriousness of the situation. I don't think that they have Twinkies over in Germany.  
  
See, that's why I like these evening study-sessions with Mr. McCoy so much. In this whole Institute, he's the only one that truly comprehends the wonder of the Twinkie. He keeps a secret stash of them in his lab - one load in his desk and the other in the paper tray. Nobody else knows about it...it's our sugary little secret. Kinda like a game that we have:  
  
"...Don't tell anyone about the Twinkies! They'll make us replace them with carrot sticks! The horror!!!"  
  
Yeah, Mr. McCoy sure has a sweet tooth. Not as much as me, of course, but he comes pretty damn close. Plus he's pretty generous as far as snacks are concerned. In fact, I hardly have to eat anything during dinner on Thursday nights...knowing that once I get down to the lab there'll be a small feast of wickedly unhealthy treats waiting for me. I'm sure that Mr. McCoy thinks that it's the only way that he can get me to go to the study- sessions.  
  
I don't have the courage to tell him that it's the company as opposed to the confectionary that keeps me visiting.  
  
I've been coming down here once a week for about two months now. My science teacher at school was threatening to flunk me if I didn't pull my grades up somehow...that's when the Prof got involved and roped Mr. McCoy into giving me private tuition. Mr. McCoy's a real good teacher and my grades improved within a couple of weeks. The truth is, I don't really need to come to these sessions at all now.  
  
'Course, I never told him that.  
  
Science was never my strong point. Actually, school as a whole was never my strong point, but science in particular has me mystified. I just don't get it. Chemicals, equations, atomic structure...why do I need to learn this junk? I could live in perfect happiness without having to know the Periodic Table, or what osmosis is, or how gravity works.  
  
...Science. What a yawn.  
  
Or at least that was what I always thought, but Mr. McCoy is so passionate about what he teaches that it's impossible not to become interested. You should see him once he really gets into a subject - his eyes just light up and he starts real talking fast...like chemical reactions were the most fascinating subject in the world. I can barely follow what he's saying sometimes, but I like to listen anyway. He's got a nice voice, Mr. McCoy. Kinda deep and gravely...not rough like Wolverine's, but kinda...soft...  
  
I think he looks forward to these study-sessions almost as much as I do. Since the whole becoming-a-Beast thing he hasn't had the opportunity to teach much. He's an Instructor at the Institute now, but I don't think that that'll ever be enough for him. Maybe that's part of the reason why he spends so much time down here in the lab. Mr. McCoy needs science like I need...well...Twinkies. I guess in that respect these evenings are good for us both. He gets a student and I get snacks. Mutual satisfaction.  
  
I think about this as I watch him at work. He's sitting at his computer at the moment - glasses perched precariously at the end of his nose - typing dutifully away at a paper he'll probably never get to show anyone. I'm supposed to be writing about the structural differences between plant and animal cells, but my mind isn't on the task. Instead, it's on him - Mr. McCoy: my friend, my teacher, my crush.  
  
Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? I have a crush on Mr. McCoy.  
  
I, Bobby Drake, have a crush on Hank McCoy.  
  
No matter how many times I say it, it doesn't sound any less weird.  
  
Okay, I like guys...but then I've always known that. I like girls too. Guess that makes me...what? Bisexual? Man, I hate labeling myself like that, but it's the truth. And it's not like I haven't had crushes before either...heck, I'm a healthy red-blooded teenager - my crotch has a mind of its own half of the time. I still get tingly when Roberto runs around without his shirt on, and I had to lie down on my front to hide an embarrassing case of hormone-overload when Kitty wore her bikini to the beach last year.  
  
...But with Mr. McCoy...I don't know, it's different somehow. When he talks to me, I don't just get tingly *down there* - though I'm not denying that it happens - but all over. You know that warm fuzzy feeling that everyone talks about? I although thought that it was just a cliché of bad writing until I met him, but that's how he makes me feel...kinda snuggly on the inside.  
  
Mmm...snuggling.  
  
I wonder what that fur feels like to snuggle too...  
  
Jubilation Lee and I had this conversation a couple of days ago. I didn't let anything slip though, just oh-so-causally started with: 'So what do you think that fur feels like?' Jubes says that he would be like a big plush- toy, but I don't think so. There's nothing cutesy about Beast. He's tall and strong - as much hard muscle as he is soft fur. I can see that from here as he types at the computer. He's wearing a lab coat with his usual uniform trunks, the white fabric stretched taut across his wide back, shoulder-blades shifting rhythmically as he types...  
  
It's quite a nice view, come to think of it.  
  
"I take it that you are finished with your report, young Iceman?"  
  
I give a guilty start at the sound of his voice, blinking quickly as a blush starts to spread cross my cheeks. I didn't even realize that he had noticed me watching.  
  
"No...not yet Dr. McCoy."  
  
The blue-furred man shakes his head with an amused chuckle, not pausing in his work. "My name is Hank, Robert. My formal title always instills within me the urge to exclaim 'He's dead, Jim!'"  
  
The reference is completely lost on me. "Huh?"  
  
"Dr. McCoy? Star Trek?" My blank silence provokes a weary rumble - halfway between a sigh and a growl - from Mr. McCoy. "Dear Lord, what's wrong with kids these days?"  
  
I don't know what to say to that, so I chose to keep quiet. Reaching across the desk, I grab a Twinkie and start to eat in a desperate bid to distract myself from thinking about Mr. McCoy's back muscles. It doesn't work, and I find my eyes drifting unconsciously to the hulking blue figure in the chair.  
  
Nice ass...  
  
Damnit, I refuse to think those kinds of things about a teacher! Well...at least not while said teacher is still in the room...I can think what the hell I want when I'm alone. The worry that the Professor might read my mind grips me suddenly. That's the problem with having telepaths around the home - you're never quite sure if your secret fantasies are actually secret. That could be embarrassing. I'm just waiting for the night when the Prof screams down from his room: 'For the love of God, Bobby! Stop jerking off and get some sleep!'  
  
The thought is strangely funny, and I snigger quietly to myself.  
  
"There is not many a student who can find the humor in standard cell structures, Robert. I wonder - is this a symptom of genius or idiocy?"  
  
He's teasing me, but I know better than to take it seriously. Still smiling, I give a short shake of my head. "Nah...I was just thinking 's all."  
  
Mr. McCoy continues to type, not breaking momentum for a single second. "Ahh...the inner workings of the teenage mind. Care to enlighten me?"  
  
...Oh, I was just wondering whether Professor Xavier knows that you're my masturbatory fantasy...  
  
I wrinkle my nose. "Somehow, I doubt that you're ready for a look inside my head, Dr...I mean, Hank."  
  
Mr. McCoy just laughs and carries on working. "Contrary to popular belief, one does not lose touch with the modern youth simply because one has turned thirty. I might understand a lot more than you think that I do."  
  
"Sir, you quoted Star Trek. The *old* Star Trek. That doesn't rate particularly high on the Bobby Drake cool meter."  
  
While I can't see it from my position, I know that he must be smiling. "I'll remember that in the future."  
  
I pause and take a thoughtful nibble on what's left of my Twinkie. "You really wanna know what I was thinking about?"  
  
"You obviously deemed it amusing."  
  
That's invitation enough for me. I lean forward slightly on my desk, eyes narrowed and eyebrows pulled into a frown. "You ever wonder if the Prof can tell when you're...you know" I pause awkwardly for a movement, searching for the right words "...having a little private time?"  
  
The tapping of quick fingers on the keyboard does not even falter. "I don't follow."  
  
"You know..." My voice unconsciously lowers slightly as the heat rises in my cheeks "...Jerking off."  
  
Hank freezes. Its quite funny actually, one second he's typing merrily away and then the next he's doing an awfully good impersonation of one of my ice-sculptures. I can't see his expression, but I don't doubt that he is surprised.  
  
Then, suddenly, he gives a short bark of laughter. Massive shoulders shudder with mirth as he turns in his chair to look at me, blue eyes crinkled in amusement behind his glasses.  
  
"You are accusing Professor Xavier of being some kind of telepathic Peeping- Tom?" He laughs loudly and shakes his head. "Robert Drake, you truly are something else."  
  
His joviality, while substantially decreasing my embarrassment, makes me feel inexplicably defensive. "Yeah, well, why wouldn't he? I would!"  
  
If anything, this only increases his jubilation. He throws back his shaggy head and guffaws to the ceiling, slipping his glasses of to cover his eyes with his hand. "Well yes, *you* probably would. However, one would hope that a renowned telepath such as the Professor would exhibit have a little more self-control than that." He looks down at me, fanged grin stretching impossibly wide. "Have no fear, my young comrade. I feel certain that your privacy shall remain intact."  
  
And that's that. All over. Mr. McCoy chuckles to himself and turns back to his work on the computer, leaving me sitting at my desk - a healthy blush over my face. After a moment, I start to chuckle too. Picking up my pen, I start to write on my report. Once again, however, I find myself having problems concentrating. I glance up to look at Mr. McCoy.  
  
"Twinkie, sir?"  
  
"I'd love one."  
  
Oh, I know that Mr. McCoy thinks that I'm just some dumb kid. I won't even try to fool myself that there's any hope that he might feel the same way about me. I'm goofy teenager to him - a boy almost half his age. And let's face it, that's probably the way that it should be.  
  
But I still can't help but wish...  
  
"Robert?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"I believe that you just offered me a Twinkie."  
  
"Huh? Oh, right."  
  
See, there are some bonds that just can't be broken. Some people are bonded by heartache...some by hatred...me and Mr. McCoy are bound by love of confectionary. The Bond of the Twinkie. I would be lying if I said that I never hoped for more to our relationship than a shared love of snacks, but this is better than nothing.  
  
Am I nuts? Yeah, probably. But Mr. McCoy doesn't mind, and that's enough for me. 


End file.
